1927
by AeolusVent
Summary: It was just plain unfortunate that Auguste Rolande, proud holder of the Ladybug miraculous, happened to be in love with his greatest enemy. Celine Odair was beautiful, charming, and the greatest cat burglar Paris had ever seen. At the height of the roaring 20s, a dramatic tale of love, duty, and deceit plays out in the City of Light.
1. Chapter 1

No one noticed Auguste Rolande as he alternately sweat and froze in his tiny garrett apartment, patiently following the ghostly directives of Raphael and Botticelli across endless cheap canvas. Many artists like him have aspired and gone hungry in the City of Light never to mount the podium of the greats and bear the acclaim of the masses as a saint or genius— but not Auguste Rolande, because he had a secret. No painting ever brought him glory like a spotted mask and a vigilante and again he thwarted, as the mighty mysterious Coccineus, some of the most heinous heists and sinister schemes ever catalogued in the Paris newspapers. Parisian police would wink an eye, and nod a head, and say that the city was blessed to have such a protector to secure the rights and freedoms of its people. Auguste never collected rewards, never gave interviews, and never confessed his identity to a living soul— only to the splashes of red and black and the millions of hidden insects in his incomprehensible paintings.

Everyone noticed Celine Odair as she painted the town, skipping in jeweled heels from luxury automobiles to dazzling nightclubs, always wearing her skirts the shortest and swinging her heels the highest, drinking the most and laughing the loudest in all the best jazz joints of Paris. Celine lived with fur on her shoulders, diamonds in her hair, and men wound tight around her fingers. That was by the cold light of neon and tungsten, however. No one saw her dressed in black and cloaked by shadows, creeping into the houses of her society friends and palming their valuables. No door, lock, or safe was safe from her. She would move in the darkness of the night and come morning, the safe would be a pile of dust on a wealthy carpet and the family's diamonds would be a memory. So proud was Celine of her unlawful talents that she couldn't help respecting Coccineus for the frequency with which he managed to _almost _catch up to her.

Across Paris, no rivalry was more notorious than that of the hero Coccineus and his most sinister enemy, the burglar known as la Chatte Voleuse.


	2. Chapter 2

Evening had set in following a brilliant fleeting sunset when Auguste put away his palette and dreamily washed his brushes. Since the untimely burning out of his very last paraffin candle, he had been unable to continue painting once the sunlight departed from his cracked windows.

"Auguste, your work today was amazing!" chimed a little voice.

"Thank you, Tikki," the artist replied absently. He turned to look at the small red creature floating over his shoulder, blinked once or twice as if he was seeing her strange little form for the first time, and smiled. "You must be hungry," he realized. Tikki nodded enthusiastically. Auguste rifled through a cabinet and emerged with a crumpled box containing one slightly squashed croissant from Dupain's bakery. Tikki descended upon it with gusto.

Auguste sighed. "I imagine you must have had past holders who managed to provide for you better. I'm sorry, Tikki."

"Don't be ridiculous, Auguste!" chimed Tikki through a mouthful of croissant. "Being your quami is amazing! You're a really special person, you know."

"Really special… and really hungry. Is there anything left of that croissant?"

"Ah… no."

"Alas," said Auguste.

It was fully dark when Auguste, eating tinned ham by the streetlight outside, was disturbed by an energetic knock at his door. When he opened it, Alain Gestin swept through in a wave of boisterous salutations and gleaming gelled hair.

"Auguste!" he cried. "I swear your little grotto gets sadder by the day. I won't hear any excuses— you are coming out with me tonight and having a good time with your fellow human beings or SO HELP ME GOD."

"But..." said the alarmed Auguste. After a day in front of the easel, his rocky little bed was looking delightful— and besides, the Parisian criminal element might try their luck tonight, in which case…

"But nothing. You've been unavoidably detained from whatever flimsy excuse you were about to give me. Tonight, we drink and dine and celebrate."

"What are we celebrating?"

Alain cast his eyes around the dim little room and caught sight of Auguste's canvas. "Your new painting!" he decided. "Now get dressed and let's go."

Forty-five minutes later, whether he liked it or not, Auguste sat in a bustling bistro within the glow of lively jazz and Alain's beatific satisfaction. There were more people around in that one room than Auguste had seen in an entire week, and he withdrew into a corner of the booth to try to escape their overwhelming vitality. Alain passed him a drink, which he consumed dolefully, and then another which he consumed with a little more enthusiasm.

"Auguste, I'd like you to meet my friend Maxim!" said Alain, introducing a scraggly scholar type in a wrinkled linen suit. Auguste soon found himself surrounded by an increasing group of Alain's friends, most of them businessmen or writers, all of whom encouraged him to drink more and worry less. Someone ordered Auguste a steak, which he ate with the vim of a man who has been living off tinned ham for a week. In the glow of light and liquor, Auguste began to enjoy himself. Alain's friend Julia, a fashionable anaemic young woman with a black bob of hair hanging in her eyes, was questioning him about his painting routine with evident fascination. Auguste stood to go to the bar for another round when the bistro door opened with a clatter of bells.

Suddenly, Auguste froze in place and his casual glance around became a fixed stare. Strolling into the glittering bistro, and seeming to glow with a still greater light, was probably the greatest work of art Auguste had ever laid his beauty-loving eyes on. A splash of white silk draped her well proportioned frame, while the dense texture of her curling blonde hair framed the clear, perfect features of her porcelain face. A diamond tennis bracelet encircled her wrist, sparkling with a thousand points of light— nearly as many as were dancing in her merry green eyes.

Auguste had not moved in several long minutes, and quite possibly would never have moved again until the day of judgement if not for Alain, who noticed his frozen state and immediately deduced its cause.

"Celine Odair," he breathed in his friend's ear.

Auguste flinched out of his stasis. "What was that?"

"Her name. That woman you're staring at, her name is Celine Odair."

"I wasn't staring at anyone," Auguste protested, his face burning.

Alain only chuckled, which made the whole thing infinitely more embarrassing.

"I wasn't!"

"Sure you weren't."

"Who is she, anyway?" Auguste tried to ignore Alain's triumphant smirk.

"Celine Odair is only the most notorious fixture of modern Paris nightlife. She comes from a ludicrously wealthy family. You'd know all of this if you ever left your pit of despair. She's the city's greatest It Girl." Alain jovially cast a heavy arm around Auguste's shoulders. "Aren't you glad you have me to keep you updated on the outside world? Think of all you're missing, spending all your time in your little cave of artistic reverie. You must be the most sheltered adult man in Paris since Quasimodo."

Auguste could hardly protest that he saw plenty of the outside world through an enchanted mask. As this would have been his only defense, he remained silent, which permitted Alain to steer him away between the crowded tables. Auguste realized with horror that he was being lead towards the bar, where languished the glittering Celine. He dug in his heels. Alain was stronger.

"Celine, dearest, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine!"

The angelic figure turned, recognized, and bestowed a smile upon Alain which might have fetched a substantial price in any market of precious art. "Alain," cried the proportionally beautiful voice. "It's been ages. How are you? Who's this friend of yours?"

Miraculously, the emerald eyes fell upon Auguste, and he felt himself rooted to the floor by their gaze as if held in the thrall of a hypnotist. He was not at that moment capable of any effort of speech, and so it was a relief when Alain said casually, "this is Auguste Rolande, a very old friend of mine. Auguste is a painter. One day he'll be famous for it, I'm sure."

Celine reached out her hand and Auguste took it with the panicked consciousness that his heart had ceased beating the moment he touched her and only resumed in a wildly erratic pattern when the handshake concluded.

"I'm always glad to meet an artist," said Celine kindly.

"I'm always glad to meet art," said Auguste's brain, though what came out of his mouth sounded more like "—thanks you… I mean, thank you— pleasure."

He knew he was blushing but could not stop it any more than he could stop the rapid progression of his infatuation with Celine Odair. She chatted amicably with Alain, and hypothetically with Auguste as well, though the latter produced very little coherent speech. Auguste discovered that Celine, inevitably, was clever, gentle, and well-spoken. She had that marvelous combination of good breeding and commendable culture. Modern, but not coarse; humble, but not insecure; sweet, but not simple. Eventually she noticed Auguste's rapt attention and shot him a knowing grin, as if she recognized his dilemma and felt sorry for him, but was a little amused as well.

"Auguste, tell me about yourself. Are you from Paris, or have you come here for inspiration like so many?"

A direct question. She said it with the encouraging tone of a primary school teacher. Auguste scrambled for a response.

"Lille, actually, is where I was born. I came here for school and just… never left."

"Why would you?" guffawed Alain.

"Lille, huh? I have friends in Lille. I visit them when Paris becomes too full of journalists." Alain (a journalist) took the point with his usual grace and went to chat with his friend Ernest, who had appeared in a corner, leaving Auguste and Celine alarmingly and exhilaratingly alone.

Celine had a tendency to make constant and conspiratory eye contact, as if when she took a person into her gaze she also took them into her confidence. "A dear man, that Alain, but he's a bit much, isn't he?"

Auguste chuckled. "He certainly is. At least he means well."

"And how did you come to be under his wing, Auguste? He seems to be very fond of you. I can see why."

Auguste didn't notice the compliment, which was lucky, as he might've combusted then and there. "Alain was at school with me, back in the day. He always knew exactly what he wanted and how to pursue it, and I… I admired his boldness. I wish I was like that." He had said too much. The encouragement of Celine's friendly green eyes (and a fair amount of alcohol) had spurred him on to babbling idiocy.

"I think it requires a great deal of boldness to create art. You should be proud."

He should? He'd never thought of it that way. How wonderful was Celine, that she had. "And what do you do with yourself? Any… goals… things you like to do…"

Celine mercifully cut off his rambling by laughing lightly and saying, "this is what I do, Auguste. It's my favorite thing in the world." She gestured one hand with a large silver ring at the room at large, hazy with cigarette smoke and warm with the buzz of nightlife. "People in places talking about things. There's nothing worse than solitude, is there?"

Auguste nodded, thinking of his empty garrett. "People like you must never be lonely," he mused.

Celine did not smile then, and the omission was telling. "I suppose I'm rarely alone," she said.

Auguste knew that wasn't the same thing but he said nothing. Celine brightened shortly as if she had firmly decided to, and then suggested they rejoin the ever-growing group settled in the booth. Auguste followed her over, as he likely would have followed her into hell itself if she had been going.

Celine only stayed until two o'clock or so, and then extracted herself laughingly from the assembly against many pleas for her to stay and disappeared into a cab. Shortly thereafter, Auguste made his excuses and wandered away from the bistro, having first promised Alain that they would do this again soon. It was a miracle that Auguste didn't walk directly into the Seine, so distracted was he on the walk home.

In the darkest part of Auguste's trip, when unseeing alleyways surrounded him, Tikki emerged from her hiding place in Auguste's coat pocket. "You like her, don't you?" was her first comment.

"What? No I don't! Like who?" said Auguste, startled.

"Celine, silly!" said Tikki, sounding as if her small body were brimming over with glee and mirth. "You were only drooling over her the whole night!"

"Was I really?" said Auguste, mortified.

"Like a lovesick little boy," the quami giggled.

Auguste buried his face in his hands. "It's just that… I don't meet people like that every day. I was overwhelmed."

"No wonder," said Tikki. "Alain has a point, you know. It wouldn't hurt you to get out more oft— Auguste, look!"

Auguste jolted and looked around him. Tikki was pointing to the sliver of dark grey sky visible between the black of the buildings.

"I think that was _her_! I just saw her jump overhead!"

"Right, let's go!" said Auguste. "Tikki, spots-"

"Aren't you still drunk, Auguste? Should we really…"

"No time, Tikki!" Auguste cried, though he knew she had a point. "We can't let her get away! Tikki, spots on!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note #1: Yay, I figured out how to do an author's note!**

**Author's Note #2: Thank you all for reading my story! It means a whole heck of a lot. To those of you who commented, followed, or favorited it: I was so friggin psyched and I'd like to thank you from the depths of my little writer heart.**

**Author's Note #3: This was originally going to be a story about the last holders of the Miraculous before Adrien and Marinette, but then "Feast" happened, so I guess now it's an AU. Oh well. I like AUs.**

**Author's Note #4: Anyways. Enjoy Chapter 3!**

Celine's taxi deposited her at a street corner near her apartment building. She waved genially until the taxi left her sight, then walked away into the darkness. "Plagg" she whispered, once ensconced behind a deserted deli three blocks away. "Plagg!" A shadowy little shape emerged from her handbag to hover in front of her, tiny arms crossed.

"It's about time," Plagg said. "I thought you'd be drinking and torturing men all night and we wouldn't have any time for the fun stuff!"

Celine laughed aloud, a far sharper sound than her society chuckle. "As much fun as that is, you know I always make time for you, Plagg."

"I don't know why people like alcohol anyway. Cheese is far-"

"Plagg, claws out!"

"Wait, I wasn't done y-"

But Plagg had been effectively silenced as Celine was engulfed in a flash of green light. When the darkness once again settled around her, she stretched her arms in their black evening gloves and sharpened her claws on the night. "Let's go, shall we?" she said.

The nights were turning off cold here at the end of summer, and Chatte Voleuse was exhilarated to feel the brush of chilly air against the lower extremities of her face, which her elaborate cat mask left bare. The scent of Paris cooling off from a long day- lingering kitchen odors, cigarette smoke, garbage for collection in the morning, and the moldy breath of the Seine- smelled like freedom to Chatte. She couldn't fight a smile of pure joy as her baton lifted her like a pole-vaulter through the night air from rooftop to rooftop. Keeping to the shadows made all the lights of Paris look golden and brilliant beneath her.

Tonight's job was so laughably easy that Chatte Voleuse almost didn't bother. Madame Montparnasse never wore her best necklace, the one with the enormous ruby, to the opera. She imagined it was safer at home. Chatte giggled, stepping over the collapsed bodies of three guards and one butler to pick the lock of the jewelery case with one skillful claw and open it. She smiled at the ruby, and it smiled back at her with a playful glitter. "Hello, my love." she said.

"Hello, Chatte Voleuse" replied someone who was not the ruby.

Chatte turned towards the window to see a figure in a red suit spotted with black leaning against the window frame and lazily playing with a large yoyo. Chatte grinned and fastened the necklace around her neck. "What do you think, Coccineus? Doesn't it suit me?"

"You know red is more my color," he replied. "I think you ought to hand it over. Your Miraculous too, while you're at it."

"So eager to see me strip, Red?" Chatte loved seeing her enemy turn the color of his nickname.

"You're a disgrace to criminals everywhere, not to mention a disgrace to the Miraculous themselves," Coccineus managed to say.

"And you're a killjoy," Chatte returned. She slowly made her way towards Coccineus and the window. He leaned back as she walked her gloved fingers across his chest, looking straight into his alarmed blue eyes with her acidic green ones. "What's so wrong about relocating a few gems? You know their owners will just go out and buy new ones."

"Is that what you think you're doing? Stealing from the rich like some kind of Robin Hood?"

"Maybe, Red. What do you think you're doing? Chasing down decent, well-meaning thieves like some kind of Inspector Javert?"

"You've stolen a bit more than a loaf of bread, Chatte." Coccineus seized the hand that was trailing up and down his sternum and gripped it tightly.

Chatte didn't fight it. Instead, she leaned in so that the silver bell at her throat rung against his shoulder and whispered in his ear, "what will it take to steal you, Red?"

Coccineus' speckled mask and the red and black fedora slating over it served to hide his identity, but they could not conceal the blush that crept across his cheeks. Chatte took a moment to attempt to identify his cologne. Then, suddenly, she gave a push that sent him tumbling out of the window and took off out of it, using her extendable baton to vault herself onto a rooftop across the street.

The whirring of a yoyo string indicated that Coccineus was in pursuit. He lunged for her and she dodged, skittering down slanted roof tiles. Her baton was ready to deflect his next attack. Chatte couldn't deny that she always anticipated her battles against Coccineus. Fighting him was like engaging in an elegant dance that only the two of them could carry out across the rooftops of Paris. They were like two divine beings alone in an eternal balance. For some reason, Chatte's enjoyment of her Miraculous hadn't been complete until it became a familiar occurence for her to have company in the skies of Paris. That Coccineus was handsome and a pleasure to fluster was merely a side benefit. Chatte's muscles itched for combat with an equal.

"I missed you the night of the Bourgeois theft, Red," Chatte said as her baton made harsh contact with Coccineus's ribcage and he was sent flying into a nearby chimney.

"I'm so sorry," he choked, collecting himself for a counterattack. "I should've been there to take you down before you even touched that brooch."

"I'm down any time, Red. You know that." She managed to shoot him a cheeky grin while dodging a punch.

"Must you continuously flirt with me, Chatte?" demanded Coccineus, backing away to gain space to use his yoyo.

"Are you really going to complain about the attentions of a beautiful woman?"

"I prefer a woman with some measure of dignity."

"Dignity," Chatte scoffed. "What fun is that?"

At that moment, Coccineus caught Chatte mid-leap and mid-quip in the string of his yoyo, slammed her down onto a flat parapet, and pinned her with his body weight. "It's over," he panted. "Give me the Miraculous of the cat."

"I don't think it would look as good on you," Chatte smiled. "Red suits your dark hair so beautifully."

Coccineus gave a huff of frustration and reached for Chatte's ring.

"Not this time, Red. Cataclysm."

A black bubbling aura appeared around the hand with the ring, and Coccineus recoiled. Chatte freed herself from his grip and danced away from him, Cataclysm at the ready. Before Coccineus could rethink his strategy, Chatte blew him a kiss with her other hand and fell back off the roof to vanish in the streets below. Coccineus swore. He looked over the edge of the roof, but Chatte's dark form was already long gone. Frustrated, he swung himself back home to stew in solitude. After a number of evasive maneuvers, Chatte's baton landed her through the window of her elaborate second floor apartment.

"Claws in," she said. The costume disappeared, revealing her evening wear once again, but the ruby necklace still glittered at her throat. Celine took it off and looked fondly at it. The shade of red reminded her of the firey hue of Coccineus' costume.

"Good work," said the newly reappeared Plagg, "though I don't know why you have to be drooling over Coccineus all the time. You know he's trying to take your Miraculous, right?"

"I'm not going to let him, silly," said Celine, petting her disgruntled quami between his enormous ears.

"I just enjoy watching him try. Besides, he's cute, and I'm bored, and what's the harm?"

"Humans," scoffed Plagg. "Why don't you just entertain yourselves with cheese, like rational beings?"

"There's a brie in the kitchen, you pig," laughed Celine, and then she laughed again as the little quami raced out of the room.

Celine held the necklace under a lamp, watching it sparkle with a focused stare as she made mental calculations. She grit her teeth in frustration. Then she peeled back an innocent looking sheath of her bedroom wallpaper, opened the safe hidden behind it, and laid the ruby to rest amongst a glittering trove of stolen gems. "Welcome to the family," she told it before closing the safe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: I'm sorry it took me so long to update! It's been a hell of a week. I think the chapter suffered accordingly, but as Julia Child says, "never apologize!" I hope that you wonderful people enjoy it. By the way, this chapter is dedicated to the love of my life- the Ladybug to my Chat- in honor of her birthday. Je t'aime, ma rose. Bonne anniversaire!**

The next time Alain invited Auguste to a party, he accepted on the spot. At eight o'clock sharp, there he was on the curb waiting for Alain to pick him up in some wealthy friend's car. It had been four days since his defeat by Chat Voleuse— four days since he met Celine. He simply had to do something to get his mind off that damn cat. Perhaps Celine could help.

Alain had shrewdly assured Auguste that Celine be in attendance, and assured him again as they approached a large house on the outskirts of the city and pulled into the private drive. The party was being held by one Nina Lahaye, apparently yet another glamorous socialite of Alain's acquaintance and— conveniently— a close friend of Celine's. The house was large, Victorian, and positively leaking light and sound. Auguste would've shrunk into his seat and desperately wished to be absolutely anywhere else, except that he could be fairly sure that Celine Odair was somewhere within that light- possibly emanating it herself. He followed Auguste in willingly.

The house was definitely smaller on the inside, or at least it was so packed with human bodies that it seemed like it. Alain, as is the way of the extroverted, immediately found a friend of his and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Auguste to hover by the bar like a spider on a wall. He snatched a cocktail from under the arm of a portly debutante and stood stirring it morosely until, to his profound joy and relief, a silver-ringed hand laid itself on his arm and he looked up to see Celine beaming at him with gentle geniality.

"Imagine seeing you here!" she cried, as one does.

Oh, Auguste had been imagining it. His imagination had fallen far short of reality in several respects, however. He never could have invented the way that green silk draped Celine's frame, or how the dark kohl on her eyelids made her eyes pierce him like a fencing saber.

"Celine! It's good you to see… to see you, I mean… can I drour you a pink?"

Celine giggled. "I'd love a drink. Come sit with me- the Fitzgeralds just arrived so I'm sure there's about to be a run on the bar."

Celine led Auguste away to a cluster of plump chairs situated in a relatively quiet corner and seated herself next to him with a conspiratorial grin. "Alain told me you needed someone to rescue you from yourself. He's enlisted me to keep an eye on you tonight and make sure you're having fun."

Auguste would've cursed, but Celine was there, so he settled for a quiet groan of embarrassment. Alain truly knew no limits. He would have made an excellent wingman to anyone who was slightly capable in themselves. And of course, why should Auguste have imagined that Celine would approach him of her own accord? Why should she want to talk to him? Celine had better friends and better uses of her time.

"You don't need to worry about me, Celine," said Auguste from somewhere within his cloud of shame. "You should be h-having fun…"

"Oh, but I am!" said Celine kindly, settling back in her chair as if to indicate that she had no intention of leaving. "Tell me Auguste, why don't you enjoy parties?"

Didn't enjoy parties? Since when didn't Auguste enjoy parties? Celine looked at him with such interest, as if she truly could think of nothing she'd rather do than talk to him. Auguste imagined that must be the key to her social success. It was certainly the cause of the ladybugs dancing the Charleston through his stomach.

"I suppose I'm… just not good at them," Auguste said. "I never know the right people or say the right things. Alain's the only reason I ever go."

Celine looked at him sadly, and Auguste quickly tried to repair whatever damage he had done. "Not that this one isn't mice… nice! I know the friend is a host of yours… host is a friend… oh, why do I bother?"

Celine gave a chuckle that vibrated through the ventricles of Auguste's heart.

"Believe it or not, Auguste, it's a great relief to meet someone who's not… as you say… 'good' at this. Would you like to dance with me?"

"To what?" he said intelligently.

"Dance," she said. Then, "you do know how?"

Did Auguste know how to dance? Yes, he resolved, he did. Alain had dragged him to lessons a year or two back. They hadn't made it all the way through the course before Alain published his article revealing the dance instructor's involvement with certain unlawful burlesque associations, but Auguste had managed to obtain a grasp on several of the most stylish dances of the day. The pair arrived at the dance floor just as the band began a slow, tremulous tango.

Auguste gulped as Celine moved close to him and took his hand. He shyly pressed his other hand to the center of her back, startled in the best way by the warmth of her skin through the thin layer of silk. Relying entirely on muscle memory, as every conscious part of his mind appeared to be consumed by the dancing ladybugs at this stage, Auguste began to move, and Celine began to follow.

It was fortunate that the Tango is easiest when one doesn't think too hard about it, because all Auguste could think about was the charged air- and there wasn't much of it- between him and Celine. He also managed to think about the softness of her hand in his, and the catlike grace with which she danced. They moved in perfect synchronization with each other and the aching violins, as if Celine could anticipate his every move. At the slightest suggestion, she twirled her hips, kicked her leg in a flash of fringe, or swept backwards at double-time to meet him with crossed ankles at the other end of the floor. People were noticing their skill together and gave them space on the dance floor to maneuver. Alain stood on the sidelines, grinning through a cigar. The exhilaration of the dance was bringing forth a kind of joy in Celine that Auguste had never seen before. Her wild grin and easy litheness as she stepped and twisted almost reminded him of his rival in the heat of battle. He dismissed the thought. She was a good dancer, that was all. Auguste nearly forgot to feel shy around Celine as they made their way around the room at the center of their own personal magnetic field.

"If you're so bad at parties, where did you learn to dance like this?" Celine asked, sounding a little shocked.

"Sometimes, one is forced into things that one never would've chosen for oneself," Auguste explained inefficiently.

"That's true enough," said Celine a little bitterly. "But tell me, what is an artist forced into, besides the occasional social outing? Isn't art supposed to be all about freedom?"

Auguste paused. He could hardly tell her that superheroes rarely feel free, even if artists might.

"We're always chasing what no one can possess," Auguste said quietly.

"What no one can possess," Celine repeated. "That is always the dream, isn't it?"

Auguste smiled. "Just like Jay Gatsby."

"I hated that book," Celine said. Then, "don't tell Scott."

"Your secret is safe with me," Auguste promised.

"Now, _Ulysses_. That is a book." Celine smiled mischeviously. "I didn't understand a damn word."

"Isn't that book horribly dirty?" Auguste grinned.

"Well, those parts I understood," she said.

"You'll have to let me borrow your copy."

"That would make me a purveyor of dirty books. Is that really how you see me?"

"No," Auguste blurted. "I see you as the most remarkable woman I've ever met."

Celine blushed suddenly, and Auguste found himself wishing that hell itself would rise up and absorb him on the spot.

"That's very kind, Auguste," Celine said. "Somehow, when you say it, it almost seems true."

Auguste scrambled for a recovery. Something casual; something lighthearted.

"Of course it is. Artists know all about the truth, you know. I mean… that's what we…" Auguste no longer had any idea what he was saying. He looked helplessly at Celine.

"I've always found art to be more fantastical," said Celine. "At least, that's the kind I like. If art is going to show something that really exists, why not just look at that thing itself?" She laughed uncomfortably.

"Because sometimes a thing is so beautiful that it has to be made into art," Auguste replied without hesitation.

Auguste seemed to be in some parallel dimension in which he was actually capable of talking to Celine, and looking her in the eye, and holding her close without collapsing of nerves and dying on the spot. He feared the moment when the spell would be broken. The music hit a crescendo and Celine leaned into him, moving her arm to drape around his neck. Auguste pulled her close to him and they were face to face, near enough to feel each other's gasping breaths. Auguste would never know what divine force intervened on his behalf, but somehow, with Celine's body pressed against his, he was able to articulate with perfect clarity the sentence "would you model for me sometime?"

Celine paused as a blush crept back across her face, then grinned and said, "sure. I'd love to."


	5. Chapter 5

**Not Very Important Note: Hey folks, sorry I dropped off the grid for a number of months. Sometimes life gets complicated. And sometimes I get lazy. I've decided to finish this story, though, partly because I have nothing better to do now and partly because I'm curious to see how it will end. If you're reading this, thank you so very much, you kind generous person. I wish you the best. If you're not reading this, I still wish you the best, you just won't know about it. Anyway, here's the next chapter. May God have mercy on my soul.**

**Important Note: I'm really justifying the 'T' rating for this story this time. This chapter's content involves domestic violence and suicide. Reader discretion is advised.**

Celine slumped comfortably across the back seat of her car, humming a jazzy tune in harmony with the buzzing of alcohol in her blood. With the divider granting her privacy from the chauffeur, Celine opened her purse to let Plagg out. He emerged in a dizzying spiral and made himself comfortable on the seat next to her.

"Could you maybe carry a larger bag next time?" he griped. "I was so cramped in there!"

"Sorry Plagg, small bags are in fashion!" Celine replied unsympathetically.

"Fashion," Plagg scoffed. "The less I have to deal with fashion, the better."

Noticing that Celine was entirely ignoring him in favor of gazing dreamily (and drunkenly) out the window, Plagg flew in front of her face and demanded "was there any cheese at this party? Did you snag some?"

Celine groaned lightly. "Don't you live for anything other than cheese, Plagg?"

"We're in the cheese capital of the world! What else does anyone live for around here?"

"France has plenty else to offer, you know."

"Ok, the bread is good too," Plagg conceded.

Celine sighed and shook her head. She resumed her inspection out the window, watching the passing patchwork of darkness and electric light.

Plagg paused his analysis of French cuisine when he noticed the pensive expression on Celine's face. He hesitantly crept onto her lap, and she began stroking his head absentmindedly.

"Celine," Plagg began.

"Hmm?"

"Do you think Coccineus is getting stronger?"

"What? Are you worried, Plagg? That's... uncommon."

"Me? Worried? No way!" Plagg insisted. "I just… it's hard to say it when I'm hungry… aren't you afraid that he might get in our way? Seriously?"

Celine laughed. "I'm sure he won't. I can take care of him just fine."

"You seem to think pretty well of him."

"He's cute, and fun to beat. What's the problem?"

"Humans are a pain." Plagg said cryptically. Then, to clarify, he said, "pretty much every time I've had a holder— and that's a lot of times— they fall in love with whoever has the Ladybug Miraculous. And I guess I was just concerned that…"

"Plagg," Celine interrupted, sounding very firm for her state of intoxication. "You don't really think I'd let something like that get in the way."

"Not really," said Plagg, flopping back down on the car seat. "I just figured I'd warn you."

"I appreciate your concern," Celine said. "But I'm not one of your previous holders. I don't have the luxury of loving anyone, least of all him."

"You have a point," Plagg said sadly.

On cue, the car crunched to a stop and Plagg fled back into Celine's bag as a burly butler opened the door.

"Welcome home, Mlle. Odair. Your father is waiting for you in the study."

Celine gulped. She emerged from the car, wobbling a bit in her high heels on the gravel drive, and followed the Butler into the grandiose Odair mansion.

Celine knocked lightly on the door before cracking it open. "Father?"

"Come in, Celine. Close the door behind you." Michel Odair was slouched in an armchair by the window. His daughter's eyes roved with distaste over his pale puffy face, his tailored suit, his wispy greying hair and his sinister red-rimmed eyes. He beckoned her closer and she advanced, still keeping a safe distance from him. He looked her up and down like a predatory bird searching for weaknesses in its prey.

"You look like a harlot," he told her. "I'm sure you've been out making a disgrace of yourself again. I wonder if I should've allowed you to stay in the apartment. All this independence is going to your head. Perhaps you need to move back home where you can be better watched over."

"No!" Celine protested automatically. "Please, father. I can handle it. I can look after myself just fine."

Michel Odair let out what sounded like an irritable growl. "I don't like your tone, girl. You have no idea what's proper for a woman of your age and standing. Are you trying to drag the Odair name through the mud, or is that just a side consequence of your lifestyle of debauchery?"

Celine fought to keep her voice civil. It was a losing battle. She was drunk, and her father was vile.

"What do YOU know about my life? You've never cared to know anything about me that you didn't decide on yourself." Celine paced the floor wildly, her inebriated voice breaking with emotion. "You know, I used to wonder if you even cared about me. If you ever once loved me, or loved anything at all. These days, I know you DON'T and you NEVER DID. Do you even recognize I'm a PERSON?"

"Not to me, you're not," Michel said coldly. Celine froze, a little shocked, even after everything, that he could say something so cruel with such composure. "My expectations for you have always been very clear," he continued. "You will marry, and marry as well as possible, and until then you will DO AS YOU ARE TOLD. I don't know where you got this idea that everything has to be about you. You're a shallow, selfish little girl."

"Selfish? You think you can call me selfish? When your intent is to sell off your daughter to fuel your own greed?"

Michel Odair chuckled. It was an ugly sound, like a frog dying of cyanide poisoning. "Selling you off, is it? Don't be so melodramatic. This is the way the world works, Celine. You should just be glad I've found a candidate who doesn't mind your history of poor decisions."

Celine froze. "You have?"

"Monsieur Dupont has made an offer. His fortune, as I'm sure you're aware, exceeds sixty million francs— ten million of which, the generous man is prepared to pay for a wife of good breeding. You will accept."

"I will not."

"Then I will. And you will go through with it, or else you will never leave this house again."

"You're wrong. I'm going to get the money to pay for my own freedom. You'll get your damn cash and then you'll leave me alone."

Michel Odair chuckled. It sounded even worse this time. "Do you mean with your little cat burglar game?"

When Celine went quiet, Michel Odair gave a full-throated laugh. "What, did you think I didn't know you've been sneaking around, trying to save up to bribe me into letting you do what you want?"

"Then you know that I will do it," Celine said softly.

"You might have had some hope when it was only poor Monsieur Vigney who was willing to consider you. Now that you have a better offer, my price has gone up. I will have ten million francs, no matter what. And soon, too. Monsieur Dupont and I were thinking next month would do for the wedding."

"I won't do it," Celine insisted.

"If you don't, I'll tell the Paris police precisely where they can find the notorious Chat Voleuse. You'll never be free then."

Celine knew from long experience how to keep burning tears at bay in her eyes, but she couldn't keep them all back as her hoarse voice screamed, "YOU TWISTED SON OF A-"

Michel Odair stood up quickly and Celine flinched instinctively.

"That's quite enough," he growled. "I expect you to do as I say. Consider the welfare of the family, not just your own selfish desires."

"What family?" Celine choked.

Then Michel Odair struck.

Celine hurled herself from the room, skidding unsteadily on her heels and tripping on edges of carpets until she had achieved her childhood bedroom and locked herself in. She collapsed on the bed, buried her face in a pillow, and began making noises that could've been sobs and could've been muffled screams. After a moment, Plagg issued cautiously from her discarded bag and hovered near her.

"Hey, kid," he said gently. Celine gave no response. Plagg nudged her shuddering shoulder a little less gently. "Kid. Look at me." Celine turned her face from the pillow to meet Plagg's eyes with her own red-rimmed and black-smudged ones.

"What?" she choked.

Plagg hesitated. He ran over the typical catalogue of condolences and encouragements. 'It'll be ok' hardly seemed right. Obviously, telling Celine not to pay any attention to her dad wouldn't do any good. 'I'm here for you?' What could he do?

"Just… stay strong, ok?"

Whatever Celine had been needing to hear, that was not it. Celine turned back to the pillow and cried all the harder. Plagg buzzed around her awkwardly until suddenly and without warning, Celine stopped crying and sat up. She rubbed her eyes, smearing the dark eye makeup which was already flowing in dark rivulets down her face. She hiccuped disconsolately. Plagg eyed her uneasily. Celine calmly leaned across to the bed to her bedside table and opened the deep mahogany drawer. She pulled out a small case of sleeping pills and poured some into her trembling palm. Too many.

Plagg's naturally bulbous eyes grew even wider. Before Celine could raise the pills to her mouth, he collided with her hand and scattered the pills across the wide bedspread. He grabbed her hand and held onto it to keep her from gathering them up again.

"Celine, what are you doing?" he panicked.

"We'll never manage it, Plagg," she said desperately, still fighting to reach the pills. "It's over. I'll never be free from him while I'm alive."

"Celine, wait," Plagg insisted. "We can still do this. We'll steal something big, you'll get your money, and we can forget about all of this! You can do whatever you want!"

"We've been at this for _months _and we're not even close! There isn't enough time now. It's over."

"It's not," Plagg said soberly. "We'll get the money. I know what we can steal. And I know a buyer."

Celine's struggling stilled. She took a large snuffling breath. "What?"

"Look, I didn't want to do this, but your pathetic excuse for a father doesn't leave me another option."

"Plagg, what are you talking about? What could we possibly steal now, the crown goddamn jewels?"

"Better," said Plagg. "Way better. We're gonna steal the rest of the miraculous."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: I've been having a lot of fan fiction dreams lately, so I'm taking it as a sign that I need to finally finish this thing. Here goes nothing (chapter 6).**

"What do you mean, the rest of them? Isn't there just you and the ladybug?"

"Ha. No." said Plagg. "I mean, I wish. The ladybug and the cat are the two most important, but there are lots of others."

"And you know where they are?"

"How do you think I got to Paris, Celine?"

"I don't know," Celine replied with a hollow chuckle. "I assumed you just crawled out of the sewers one day."

"Very funny. You remember the auction, don't you?"

Celine nodded. She certainly did remember. That was the day it had all begun. A simple art auction which she had stumbled into with her friend Nina, who had been campaigning after a small turtle statue of obscure origins which she was convinced would make the perfect compliment to the aquatic themed tiles of her conservatory mantelpiece. While perusing the offerings before bidding began, Celine came across an understated silver ring with subtle detailing of a cat's paw.

"Leave it to you to find cat jewelry." Nina had said. Celine had always loved cats.

When the bidding came around to the ring, Celine wasn't intending to really purchase it. She just made an opening bid out of curiosity, really. And then there was a very stuffy-looking man with pointed spectacles in the back row who kept out-bidding her. Celine expected he was some scholar who would keep the ring in a case to inspect and take notes on. It probably had some connection to a forgotten moment in art history. Celine hated to see perfectly useful items become artifacts. She increased her bid.

And because she was Celine Odair, and money was the very least of her worries, it wasn't long before the stuffy-looking man sat back in his seat in resignation and the little silver cat ring was going once, going twice, sold to the lovely lady in green.

"Oh yes, I remember the auction. Am I about to find out how a miraculous ended up in an obscure art sale?"

"I really really wasn't going to tell you, but I guess I have to now. Look, I came to Paris with one of the last guardians of a bunch of miraculous."

"How many?" Interjected Celine.

"Seventeen. Now let me tell my story."

"_Seventeen?" _breathed Celine. "And you were going to tell me none of this?"

"I'm telling you now," argued Plagg.

"Right. You came here with one of the guardians of the miraculous. How did you get separated?"

"It was NOT my fault," Plagg prefaced.

"I never said it was," said Celine.

"Ok, just so we're clear. What happened was, Fu had to come through customs with the lot of us, and like a fool, he was wearing my miraculous on his finger. Guess he thought I'd protect him or something."

"You? He must've been a fool."

"Hey, I didn't get a chance to do anything. Some greasy customs officer took one look at the ring and figured it was valuable, so he took it. So much for the government. Then the guy sold it, it ended up at auction, and here we are."

"Here we are indeed," said Celine. "But the rest of the miraculous. This Fu man still has them?"

"As far as I know. He must've given the Ladybug miraculous to somebody after he figured out someone was using the cat miraculous to commit crimes."

"Hence why Coccineus is always after my miraculous," said Celine thoughtfully. "This Fu, you know where he is now?"

"Not exactly. Tikki won't tell me."

"Who's Tikki?"

"Coccineus' quami," said Plagg.

"Are you saying you two spend time together?" said Celine incredulously.

"Oh, Sugar Cube and me go way back. But that's not the point. I don't have Fu's address, but clearly Coccineus does. We should follow him sometime."

"Follow him?"

"Yeah, that's when you go where he goes only you don't let him see you."

"Hilarious. So, what, are you saying that I could find this Fu person, take the rest of the miraculous, and sell them… for roughly 8 million francs? Plagg, I can't believe that this will actually work." Further tears began to creep from Celine's eyes.

"No no, it will!" Plagg reassured her somewhat frantically. "Look kid, we're not talking about some costume jewels. This is bigger than any blingy necklace you've ever snatched from some rich person's boudoir. The miraculous… if I do say so myself… are the most valuable bits of metal on the green earth. Trust me on this."

Celine was not overly impressed. "What will we do with them, anyway? Stroll into a pawn shop and say 'hey, these jewels are magic, buy them from me for a fortune please?'"

"Please. We're taking them to a discriminating clientele."

"Meaning…"

Plagg's tiny body drew in an enormous breath. "There's a small secret society based in Paris which has the sole purpose of tracking down and studying the miraculous. Word has it, the society was formed by a miraculous holder in Italy in the Renaissance. Well, that's how I remember it, anyway. My thing used to be wine in those days and let me tell you…"

"Ok, hold on," Celine interrupted. The flood of information appeared to be making her slightly seasick. "A secret society…"

"A small one," said Plagg.

"That's looking for the miraculous…"

"As a bonus, they're mostly outlandishly wealthy."

"And you were in Italy in the Renaissance?"

"Briefly. I'll let you read my travel journal later. Do we have a plan?"

Celine slumped back against the crowd of pillows on her bed. Her hand draped over her eyes as if her head were aching. Plagg waited anxiously.

"Fine," she said. "Let's steal some Miraculous."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: I think it's just about time for my biweekly viewing of ****Oblivio. On that subject, this chapter has some spoilers for Feast, so if you haven't watched it yet, go watch it. **

Several days later, a bony inkstained hand rapped sternly on the door of a modest second floor apartment. Inside, Fu froze. His eyes darted around the room and after a second of consideration, he snatched up his phonograph with the odd pattern and stashed it behind his small sagging sofa. A minute later, he cracked open the door and peered out.

Waiting in the hallway was a thin and stuffy-looking man with a severely slicked back helmet of white hair and a pair of pointed glasses. "You must be M. Fu," he declared.

Fu nodded hesitantly.

"Hubert Agreste," the man introduced, crisply handing Fu a small business card. "I would like to discuss a proposition with you which may be greatly to your benefit. May I come in?"

"I suppose you had better," said Fu, staring at the business card as if dazed.

Fu guided M. Agreste to a wobbly armchair in the middle of the room and sat himself nervously on the sofa. M. Agreste declined his offer of a cup of tea.

"Allow me to be frank, M. Fu," he said, leaning back somewhat dangerously in the chair. "I know that you are guardian to a miracle box. I am aware that it was you who brought the miraculous of the ladybug and the black cat to Paris."

Fu denied nothing. He turned over the business card in his hands with a kind of resignation. "Just as well as I can tell by this insignia," he sighed, tracing the emblem on the card with one trembling finger, "that you are one of that order which has sought after the miraculous for centuries."

"Quite right," replied M. Agreste proudly. "My family has belonged to the Order of the Crimson Seal ever since my distant ancestor weilded the cat miraculous five centuries ago… or so the story goes. Of course, no one has seen that miraculous in many years. Until recently, of course. Imagine my surprise when the criminal element suddenly gained the ability to carry off thefts of superhuman ingenuity. It only took the perusal of a couple of police reports for me to recognize the unmistakable work of the cat's legendary destructive power. And furthermore, imagine my organization's delight when inevitably, the Ladybug appeared in response. Finally, the powers of creation and destruction are at work in the world again."

"The miraculous of the cat is missing," Fu said cautiously. "It was lost. Whoever Chat Voleuse is, I cannot say how she got her hands on it. She operates completely separately from me."

"Of course," said M. Agreste smoothly. "It is very regrettable that such an awesome power should have fallen into the hands of a thief. No wonder you felt it necessary to distribute the miraculous of the ladybug. What better force to keep the cat in check?"

"Coccineus has done well," Fu replied cautiously. "What remains the most important thing is that all of the miraculous are accounted for and kept out of the hands of those who would use them for truly dangerous purposes. For all her flaws, Chat Voleuse does not seem inclined to use the cat miraculous to hurt anyone. Sooner or later her luck will fail and Coccineus will apprehend her."

"I cannot say that I share your confidence there," M. Agreste smirked. "Indeed, the young lady has impressed me considerably. She seems to be a rather talented miraculous holder. She uses the powers of the cat to great effect. Your chosen bug may find her a more formidable opponent than expected. But then, I would scarcely expect less from such an accomplished and notorious individual."

Fu's gaze snapped to M. Agreste's face in surprise. "What makes you say that? Could you possibly know the true identity of Chat Voleuse?"

"I had the fortune of witnessing her obtain the miraculous. Her identity is known to me."

"And will you tell me who she is?"

"I might be willing, if you are receptive to my request."

Fu narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What is it that you want?"

M. Agreste leaned back in his chair once again, surveying the small room with a critical eye. "It seems to us at the Order that you are in a rather difficult position. I have heard that your departure from the Temple of the Guardians was inopportune."

Fu flinched, but said nothing. In a conversational tone, M. Agreste continued his narration. "Your journey to Paris must have been a challenging one as well. Now here you are, with little to your name but a few salvaged miraculous. They certainly don't seem to be doing you much good in these circumstances. You seem to be a young man who is quite alone in the world. It is a great pity to see a guardian and a miracle box in such a position."

"What are you getting at, M. Agreste?" Fu demanded quietly.

"The Order of the Crimson Seal and I would like to help you, M. Fu. We believe that we could provide the proper security and treatment of the miraculous. We would be honored to have you join us as well. With the Order's resources and the knowledge and experience of a guardian, we could delve deeper into the potential of the miraculous than ever before."

Fu frowned deeply. "I'm afraid I am not a genuine guardian. I was far from completing my training when the temple was lost. I doubt I could be of much use to you."

M. Agreste chuckled. It was an unnatural noise. "That is not a problem, M. Fu. With possession of the miracle box which you salvaged and your undoubtedly fascinating experiences, the Order would be greatly advanced."

"That is another thing," said Fu. "I cannot give you the miraculous."

M. Agreste suppressed the rapid onset of an animalistic scowl and asked with forced politeness, "and why not, M. Fu? Surely you would be better off with aid of the Order, and if what you tell me is true, the miraculous may be better in our possession than in that of an… amateur guardian."

"Your offer is generous, but I must refuse. I may not be a proper guardian, but I am aware that to surrender the miracle box to your order would be to place it in the hands of those who wish to abuse the power of the miraculous. It is the least I can do for the memories of the lost guardians to prevent that at all costs."

Now M. Agreste's face betrayed his frustrated glower. "You're making a mistake, Fu," he growled.

"I think not," Fu replied.

M. Agreste stood up suddenly. "You'll think otherwise soon enough," he declared. "You could've been handsomely rewarded for contributing the miracle box to the Order. Now I can only imagine that you will lose it in far less favorable circumstances before long."

Fu stood up too. "What do you mean by that?"

M. Agreste smiled with tight lips. "Paris is a dangerous city, Fu. There are plenty of unsavory individuals who might come looking for the miraculous. I'd hate for you to get… unlucky."

With this cryptic pronouncement, M. Agreste cast one final glance around the room which lingered perhaps a little longer over the lumpy sofa before striding from the room. As he exited, he called over his shoulder, "if you change your mind, you can be in touch."

When the door closed firmly, Fu stood frozen in place for a few long minutes until he could be sure that M. Agreste was long gone. Then he grabbed his overcoat and rushed out to the nearest payphone.


End file.
